A New Form of Hell
by obsessedwithstuff
Summary: Alfred has woken up on the same day of the same year to the same blasting music for as long as he can remember. Everyday he has to suffer through the same tragedy, only to fall asleep the same evening and have to live it all over again. He doesn't know how much longer he can take of it. My dedication to the victims of 9-11. Slight USUK.


__**I wrote this story in dedication to the thousands of people who died in the 9-11 disaster. I did not mean this to be offensive in anyway or to hate on anyone. It is simply a dedication. R.I.P all those precious lives.**

* * *

_Babe_

_I got you babe_

_I got you babe_

Alfred opened his eyes to the white, cracked ceiling once again, the sound of the same, infuriating song blasting in his ears, from the radio, signalling his 6 am wake up call as always. There was no doubt it would never come for him.

He got up slowly, grudgingly, his plan for the day already laid out in front of him. There was no hurry, no rush, as always, plenty of time to have a nice, warm shower, calm his nerves, grab a coffee and a bagel from the deli round the corner. He always chose a different one, there were so many different flavours after all; at least it was something in this world he could change.

And as always, the man smiled, friendly, through his thick beard that was starting to turn grey, and said to him in his thick, eastern European accent:

"Have a nice day young man."

And as always, Alfred replied:

"Dude, it's always a nice day when the hero is in town."

How many times had he said that now? How long had it been? How many times had he woken in the same, bland hotel room, to the same music, the same sunrise shining in through the half closed curtains and the same people walking down the street, innocent, unsuspecting, simply on their way to work? He didn't want to know. To him, it simply seamed like a lifetime, a lifetime of repetitiveness, mind numbing monotony, the same day for him, every day this day –_why? why this day? why not any other day? _

He could barely remember his life outside of New York anymore. He was only meant to come here for a week, so much for that plan. Didn't he used to have a vacation home somewhere – England maybe, it sure rained enough – and he would go there every year with Arthur – _oh Arthur_.And didn't he once have a Japanese friend, one he knew from college? Kiku? Was that his name?

The subway station was five blocks away, plenty of time to walk, to let your mind wonder to mysterious places, memories of old times, of times he had tried to escape this nightmare.

He had thought stupidly that if he could get out of New York it might be over, he might not have to face the torture again. He didn't think he could be any more wrong.

The subway, the Q line to Coney Island, the E line to Queens, and maybe just spend the day there – _There will be serious delays on this line due to repair work/scheduling problems/police matters. We are sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused to your journey _– by then it was too late.

A taxi, pay the driver far too much money to drive him anywhere – _"Where?"_ – anywhere, anywhere but here, as long as it's fast – _"Sorry mate, the traffic is backed up for miles. You're better off walking." _

JFK airport, a flight to London – _to Arthur _– to Paris, to San Francisco, as long as it wasn't here – _Your flight has been delayed (cancelled) due to problems in the weather/technical support/scheduling. We are sorry for any inconvenience..._

No matter how hard Alfred tried, there was simply no way out. He was trapped in this hell, forever forced to endure the same, mind numbing torture day after day, week after week. It didn't matter what Alfred did or didn't do, he always woke up in the same uncomfortable bed, to the same music, and everything was back to the way it was the day before. And what irked him the most was that whenever to checked the newspaper, or the television, or called up the central offices, the day after his attempted mistake, there was no news of a flight cancellation, traffic jam, subway delay; it was Fate, purposely twisting the world, twisting the outcome of everything else to keep him locked away, like a fly in the spider's web, playing right into Fate's hands, to keep him forever trapped.

_Trapped..._

It wouldn't be long until Alfred finally snapped.

A quick stop at the ATM before catching the subway, the 123 line, to collect some well needed cash for his empty pockets. The queue was three people long, as always, a man with ginger hair who Alfred never saw the face of, who he always had his back to, a young woman, tall, impatient, clicking her heels on the pavement and checking her watch constantly in irritation as she waited, and a middle-aged, fat man, grey at the sides, bald on top, always smiling up to Alfred from his dirty top and jeans, always making pointless small talk between them about the weather, about baseball. Alfred had stood a few people behind him when he was running late one time; the man did it to anyone that he could.

How much money had he wanted? How much did the ATM allow out? $500? $1000? Everything in his bank account?

"That's a lot of money you have there fella." Alfred only smiled at the not-so-stranger's shocked face and confused eyes, stuffing the green notes into his wallet.

"I don't need it anymore."

The subway was crowded, as always, but not so much that it was a tight, unbearable squeeze for everyone who stepped on, too many people crammed into one space, not enough room for anymore, personal space quickly becoming a thing of the past – everyone knew each other here – and Alfred had was forced to stand. As he watched the florescent lights from the tunnels rush by, over the head of those sitting, making sure to not make eye contact with anyone, he couldn't help but be reminded of his spontaneous, desperate adventure on a train –_this same train? _– too long ago.

A single, hand held gun, that was all it took, bought from a shop round the corner for $100, only with a hat and sunglasses to hide his face, that was all it took to high-jack the train he happened to be on at the time, placing a the gun to the shaking driver's temple, thinking the entire time of a film he had once seen of a group of high-jackers taking a subway train, and told him to stop the train and radio the control centre asking for a million dollars in trade for his hostages.

He had failed, of course, he was no professional criminal and had never planned to be, and was immediately sent to jail, of course, awaiting his trial for the impending week. It was worth it though, just so all those people never make it to work that morning, never go through the eternal suffering and pain of the inevitable disaster, lived to see another day. It only occurred to him after he had woken up the next (same) day, away from the jail, from the police, in that same, dull hotel room with the same, repetitive music playing in his ears, that the people he saved would only have to suffer the same fate today if he did nothing. None of what he did mattered. It was all useless, idiotic. Alfred felt his heart sink in devastation. He barely had the energy to get out of bed that morning.

"If I could all have of your attention please I would like to say something. This will only take up a minute of your time so if you would please listen..."

The homeless man again, always walking through the carriages, claiming in a pit of lies about his dying sister lying helpless in a hospital bed, how he had spent all his money paying for her operation and now had nothing left for himself, no home, no money, nothing but the clothes on his back, to get the sympathy of the people in the seats as they blanked him completely, and needed whatever change the people of the subway could spare to help him through another day of his torturous life. Alfred had heard it a thousand times through agonizing ears; it never changed, so rehearsed, he probably only wanted it to buy weed or heroine.

Usually, no one responded, and the man went about his business in another cart, collecting money, reciting the same speech over and over, but today, Alfred was feeling generous. Maybe this would be the last time he would ever have to say that speech.

He stood, eyes only focused on the scruffy, dirty man, walking over to him quickly as a confused, hopeful look streaked across the man's face. Without a second word, Alfred pulled out his wallet from his back pocket and all the green notes hidden within it. The homeless man – _how could he not know his name after all this time? _– just stared in bewildered shock as Alfred carefully placed the money into his hands.

"You got to be joking mate. There's gotta be at least a thousand bucks here." The man was shaking his head in denial, a suspicious look on his face, but not letting go of the money, holding it in his hands like diamonds in cautious hope. "There must be something I can do in return."

"What's your name?" It was all Alfred wanted to know, all Alfred wanted now his life was so worthless. At least the man could know he did not go forgotten as he did in everyone else's minds. It was a moment before he spoke, as the train pulled into its final stop.

"Tony... Why?"

But Alfred just smiled, as if he were an innocent child asking the most ridiculous question on earth.

"My stop."

Alfred was gone, never looking back, a wistful smile on his face without an ounce of regret, feeling the eyes of the homeless man – _Tony _– on his back the entire way as he strolled from the station.

On the streets now, only a few blocks away. He checked his watch, not that he needed to know how long there was left, before heading off to his destination.

A black Mercedes Benz stopped at a near by red light, the driver impassive, staring straight ahead at road, even as Alfred watched him with hurt eyes, his platinum blonde hair, his violet eyes, and it tore at Alfred's heart every time he saw him drive past with the same, bored expression, without a second glance to the man on the street who had saved his life.

He had heard his name a few times before, one of the victims –_Ivan Braginski, two sisters, three servants, all standing, watching, mourning, as his face did not appear in the smoky wreckage_ – he was important somehow, Alfred couldn't remember why now, and so it was the first person he thought to save. And it seamed to all fall into place as he learnt that the Mercedez Benz that passed him every day outside the subway station was his, the one that had almost run him over once in his rush. It was easy enough to stop it, one way or another; jumping in front of the car, refusing to move, climbing in the back seat, stopping him at his house, causing a commotion. And every time, after everything had settled down, he was invited back to his apartment, thanked profusely, a few lazy drinks, laughter, trying to take it that little step further under the dim candle lights of his over sized living room, exploring new territories on the strange coach.

A flash of green light, and the car was driving again, gone without a second glance, all the twisted memories nothing to his indifferent expression, the last time Alfred would see that face as he drove to his office at work.

Alfred was walking again, only three blocks to go. A sigh, another check of his watch – _almost time._

His stomach twisted as he walked, churned uncomfortably in his dread, in his heart gripping fear, but still, robotically, forcing his legs to move as they began to seize up in the knowledge of what he was about to do, he pressed on.

The building –_buildings _–loomed up in front of him now, taller than all else around, the tallest in the world someone had once told him, dominating the view, bustling crowds of every day people spilling in and out of its – _their _– doors.

Like a mirror, both towers stood facing each other exactly identical, twins.

Why did it have to be this way? Couldn't Fate have given him another way to escape this rotting cage he liked to call hell? A crack, a loophole, anything. Even when he left everything as it was the world would not grant him the pleasure of an exit, staying in his room all day, promising himself not to disturb the flow of the world, of the day's events, for it had dawned on him with a slow, crushing realisation that nothing could be changed about this day, everything was set on a certain course, the people who died were meant to die, the people who lived were meant to live, and changing that, stopping people from entering that building(s) before it happened, letting people live, twisting the path Fate had laid out long ago, wasn't possible for a single, insignificant man such as him. A punishment worse than death had been sentenced onto his head when he had.

Even the police – _FBI, CIA, the government_ – had rejected his calls, his desperate pleas, his violent warnings, as he screamed at them to believe him, he was telling the truth, they had to believe him, so many innocent people would die if they didn't.

Always designated the ramblings of a crazy man, hung up on conspiracy theories, the same words were given in answer to him every time, playing over and over, a broken cassette, as if rehearsed especially for him, as if the world could not think of anything original to put into their mouths – _"We can assure you sir that security in that area is of the highest and tightest it has ever been. A terrorist attack on the World Trade Centre would simply be impossible." _

It was Fate's way of telling him that it was in control, not him, and no matter what he did, that would never change.

Check his watch again, two more minutes. Why was this elevator going so slow? Was it time, or just perception? Would he make in it there before it happened? How many floors was it again? Had he counted right? What if he was a few floors higher or lower than he had anticipated?

The elevator pinged, the doors opened and he got off, watching helplessly as the people he left behind in it headed further up the tower. He instinctively headed to the window – _which window? any window _– in an effort to take a last glimpse at the amazing city, New York, such a huge opportunity to visit such an outstanding place.

And then he saw it, the plane, heading straight for him, and his stomach lurched in sickly fear. Time seamed to slow around him as he watched his death draw ever nearer and he immediately knew that this was what it felt like to fall from a great height, watching your death speed to you, closer and closer, knowing this is the end, only a brief moment – that felt like eternity – to think of everything he could.

His life; childhood, warm, home, family, school, high school, friends, fun, growing up, sex, leaving, college, friends, fun, parties, sex, leaving, jobs, money, apartment, stress, holiday, friends, love, _Arthur_...

The next moment was only blinding pain, agonizing, not able to breath, a roaring noise, too loud for ears, and darkness.

Then a white, cracked ceiling, the morning light spilling over him, too bright.

_Babe_

_I got you babe_

_I got you babe_


End file.
